The Importance of Being Private
by Hikaru R. Kudou
Summary: Sherlock/John. John thinks his privacy is intruded by Sherlock when he caught the detective using his password-protected laptop.


**Title: **The Importance of Being Private

**Author:** Hikaru R. Kudou

**Fandom:** BBC's Sherlock

**Characters/pairing:** John/Sherlock, Angelo, mentions of Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade, Donovan & Anderson

**Rating:** PG

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, unfortunately.

**Warning:** Un-beta-ed. Yup. The horror!

**Summary:** John no longer thinks his privacy is safe from Sherlock when he saw his flatmate accessing his laptop when it was password-protected.

**A/N:** My first fic for this version of Sherlock Holmes. Also, crossposted to LJ's sherlockbbc community.

* * *

Soon after the successful conclusion of _A Study in Pink_, John Watson ran over the contents of his mobile phone and made a mental note to **never **store personal information in it - information that he would rather not have Sherlock Holmes knowing. Judging by the alarming number of times that Sherlock handled his phone - when he was not ordering John to call or text someone on his behalf, that is - there was a good chance that the consulting detective might be prying his nose a little too deep.

Mind, John had nothing to hide, but some things - text messages from other people, or his psychotherapist - were better left unknown to third parties.

John thought he was safe...until he caught Sherlock using his laptop. His password-protected laptop. It was only a matter of time until his flatmate started hacking into his accounts. It was bad enough that Mycroft seemed to be doing it before John even knew Mycroft had placed him under his radar...

"I thought we've gone through this!" said John, clutching his laptop protectively over his chest.

Sherlock sighed, not out of guilt. "I was surprised you didn't change the password after the first time. I see it as your consent-"

"It's civic practice, Sherlock! And don't give me that 'high-functioning sociopath' argument."

"I just needed quick access to the Net, and my laptop is in my room-"

"Can't you at least ask for my permission first? I was just downstairs!"

Sherlock eyed his flatmate, and said placidly, "I didn't look at anything else, John. That, I can give you my word."

That shut John up. He frowned in rebuke, and retired to his room without another word.

At times John wondered why his therapist had suggested blogging as a resort to channel out his...problems. Blogging involved posting things for the entire virtual world to read - as such, there was no telling what kind of people were reading his life's story. There was an option to hide his entries, of course, but it was still possible that his account could be hacked in (by a certain consulting detective, to name one example?). As such, it was difficult for him to be really honest in his writings.

He tried keeping a journal, which he hid among his book collection. He thought it would do - until he caught Sherlock going over his books on the excuse of "searching for something of grand medical importance".

He burnt the journal the next day. Sherlock never did ask anything - either he already knew or he just could not be bothered.

The safest solution that he could see at the time was to have his journal entries stored in his laptop, which he had presumed would be safe, his laptop being password protected and all. But the sight of Sherlock happily typing away on his laptop crushed his sense of security to tiny, tiny pieces.

There was a knock on his door, interrupting his train of thoughts. Sherlock? But it's odd - based on his short experience with the man, Sherlock would only barge into his room, completely indifferent as to whether John was ready to allow him in or not. It could not have been Mrs. Hudson - her knocking was decidedly more feminine, and she would call out "Dr. Watson" in that motherly voice of hers. Yes, it must be Sherlock.

John stopped himself. He was starting to be analytical a la Sherlock Holmes. That man really was infectious.

The doctor opened his door, and true enough, his flatmate was standing on the other side, looking slightly uncomfortable.

"Hungry?" said Sherlock. "The kitchen is not exactly suited for cooking, and Mrs. Hudson refused to cook something for us. She's busy in front of her telly." He handed him his coat, and waited for John to meet his eyes.

John did not, but he slipped his coat on all the same.

Angelo came to their table, insisting that the pair tried a new specialty his restaurant was serving at the time. John gave him an affirmation, an amiable smile and a word of gratitude. When Angelo returned with his order and Sherlock's cup of coffee, the restaurant owner even made the extra effort of sliding a lit candle on their table.

John reached for the candle, intending to blow it out, but Sherlock's steady hand shot out to stop his gesture.

"Let it be," said Sherlock, looking into John's enquiring orbs. "I prefer it there."

John felt a warm blush creep over his face, but he withdrew his hand all the same. He found himself slightly upset that Sherlock had removed his hand from his as well.

"Is there any particular reason why we're here?" asked John, poking his spaghetti.

"Sergeant Donovan called me a moment ago," said Sherlock. "Said something about Lestrade wanting me to keep an eye out for something here. Their sources tell them that a certain fugitive is bound to be in this part of town tonight."

"Ah, Sergeant Donovan...I'm surprised she was willing to call you up."

"She made it clear it was Lestrade's orders, and she called me 'freak' at every opportunity she had during the call. That I deduced she was in a bar with Anderson only enraged her."

"Maybe that's why she is so annoyed with you." John took a sip of his tea. "You figure out things that she'd rather hide. Like her relationship with Anderson."

Sherlock chuckled a bit. "That is something, isn't it? I'm sure their aversion towards me is what unites them."

"Right."

"And you are not thrilled with it, are you?"

John stared. "Sorry?"

"Well, the same logic applies to you, doesn't it?" Sherlock leant back. "Obviously you see it as an intrusion of privacy when I used your laptop without your knowing. You resent that - there are things that you'd rather not have my finding out about them. You feel as if it's an attack on your vulnerability,"

John placed his cutlery on the table. The spaghetti can wait. "Like I said, it's what civics dictates."

"In less than one day I have succeeded in curing your psychosomatic limp - not entirely, perhaps, but almost there - whereas your therapist had been at it for months. I'd say it's wonderful progress."

"Yes. Perhaps you know more about me than my therapist does." In a smaller voice, he added, "perhaps, even more than I know myself."

It was Sherlock's turn to stare. John shrugged it off, and picked up his fork, "One day, you'll run out things to deduce, and you'll get bored. Then everything is over."

"You lied to me."

Sherlock paused in front of their flat door, and turned to face the ex-army doctor. "About what?"

"About Lestrade asking you to keep a lookout at Angelo's. That person never appeared."

"Of course he didn't. That's what I told Donovan when she phoned me up, that their source got it wrong."

"I see. So why were we there, really?"

"To confirm a suspicion." Sherlock opened the door, and closed it once John was in.

That night, alone in his room, John switched his laptop on. He blinked once when he saw a new document entitled 'John' on his desktop, one that he had no recollection of being there before.

No prize for guessing who put it there. He clicked it open:

_Even after figuring you out, I doubt I'll ever find you dull. Deduced that myself, so it must be right._

_P.S. I prefer observing you as a whole compared to perusing your documents. It's infinitely more interesting._

John automatically smiled at that.

When Sherlock burst in his room again thirty minutes later, announcing something about an email from Lestrade, John said nothing when Sherlock sat next to him on his bed, and started typing on his - John's - laptop. The shorter man could not resist inching closer to his companion - "I can't see it very well from this angle" - that their shoulders brush against each other.

Sherlock smiled, broader than usual, and closed the distance between them.


End file.
